


a thousand dreams within me softly burn

by snitches_get_stitches



Category: American (US) Actor RPF, Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) Actor RPF, The Pacific RPF
Genre: Arguing, Crying, Drabble Collection, Drinking, Exhaustion, Filming, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence, Morning After, One Word Prompts, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Seasonal Affective Disorder, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22906303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snitches_get_stitches/pseuds/snitches_get_stitches
Summary: Winter weighs on Rami like nothing else Joe’s seen—like something tragic and inevitable, like an ancient and unholy storm, and it sends him lurching inside himself, as if he could escape the cold if he retreated far enough inside his own head.A collection of short drabbles inspired by one-word prompts.
Relationships: Charlie Hunnam/Rami Malek, Rami Malek/Joe Mazzello
Comments: 57
Kudos: 34





	1. wind (mazlek, pining)

**Author's Note:**

> if i try to write something with plot again i think i might actually die, so take these in the meantime. they'll be short and varying in content, but they'll all be more or less drabbles unless i get really inspired.
> 
> these will probably all be mazlek, btw, but i'm not opposed to some charlie hunnam in my fic.
> 
> title from a rimbaud poem, because i'm gay as all hell

_01\. wind_

It's blustery that day, the wind whipping Rami's curls to and fro as they fight against it in one of London’s busy streets. The actor’s hair is unruly to begin with, but mother nature has no problem giving it another spirited tousle as Rami laughs against it, trying to bury his nose in the scarf he has piled high around his neck.

It's such a brief moment, silly and lighthearted, but his laugh and the boyish curl of hair is so unbearably _sweet_ that Joe finds himself overwhelmed with some indescribable feeling, this all-consuming urge to kiss him or hold him or _something_ , and for a surreal moment he's jealous that the wind can wind her fingers through Rami's hair so freely and openly when Joe himself _can't._

Rami must notice the stutter in his step, the shift in his mood because he's turning to him with wind-rosy cheeks and calling his name, a soft and inquisitive and slightly teasing _Joey_ , and Joe realizes with equal amounts of clarity and terror that he _loves_ him, by God he loves him—but the wind whips past them with another terrible gust and takes the soaring moment with it, leaving only a puzzled Rami and a dreadfully hollow cavity in Joe’s chest.

  
  



	2. carnivore (mazlek, soft porn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe loves Rami for how he _consumes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some soft porn in this :)

_ 02\. carnivore _

Joe loves Rami for how he  _ consumes _ .

He treasures his toothy grins, the flash of something ancient and predatory in his eye, the hunch of his back when he's hiding something from view. He loves to watch him drop all Hollywood decorum and eat with his fingers, broad fingertips scratching under crab shells and orange peels as he chatters away about something or other, the smell of spice and citrus that will follow him after. He drinks up the delicious way Rami will suck on his teeth, his lips, a cigarette—the way smoke will fall from his mouth afterwards, like blood dripping from that pouty upper lip. The curl of his grin when Joe makes a joke, the way his lips peel back to reveal the point of his fangs, his inner carnivore.

But there's nothing like Rami on his knees, eyes lidded and feline as he skates his teeth down Joe’s length with a grin, as he suckles on the head of his cock before swallowing it down, hot and wet and dangerous around him. The careful hunch of his back, the sting of his nails against the backs of his knees, the flutter of his dark lashes against his brow bone.

All Joe knows is that Rami is eating him whole and doesn't even know it, and Joe is willing, willing, willing.


	3. bullet (mazlek, filming)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all that Rami is pure California boy, a caricature of his Los Angeles tan and the semi-surfer drag of his Valley vernacular, he makes a bizarrely good Cajun.

_03\. bullet_

For all that Rami is pure _California boy_ , a caricature of his Los Angeles tan and the semi-surfer drag of his Valley vernacular, he makes a bizarrely good Cajun.

Joe finds himself distracted by it—by his carefully learned New Orleans drawl, the sleepy cadence of it as he leans back against the oil drum between takes, by the way his dog tags lay tantalizingly low on his bony sternum, between his penny-brown nipples. By how his wide-set eyes hang heavy and half-lidded in the Australian heat, pinning Joe to his place as they run through take after take, the hollering of the camera operators serving only as distant background noise to Joe’s fixed musings.

He can almost picture Rami in this war in a way he can't with the others—something about how he lets the unhinged tragedy of Snafu swallow him whole, consume him in a way that Joe can't allow himself to do with Sledge. It's scary, almost, terrifying that Rami could almost find himself lost Snafu’s psyche, in some vague approximation of his past, and Joe thinks about how different Rami’d look with bullet wounds and belt whips instead of the constellation of West Coast freckles that he has mapped across his shoulders.

The thought hovers too long—the theoretical bullet wound begins to trickle blood, thick and heavy, before Joe tears his eyes away from the spot near Rami's navel he’d been gazing at absently. He squeezes his eyes shut, somewhere between disturbed and ashamed as the weight of the thought finally settles somewhere dark in his mind, and he thinks that this is the show, this is the _boy_ , that will ruin him for anything else.


	4. winter (mazlek, seasonal depression)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rami doesn't do well in the winter.

_04\. winter_

Rami doesn't do well in the winter.

Perhaps it's some side effect of growing up in the Valley, of being a born and bred California boy—or maybe it's the faint echo of his ancestors in his blood who spent generations, _millennia_ in that ancient biblical desert half a world away. Whatever the reason, though, winter weighs on Rami like nothing else Joe’s seen—like something tragic and inevitable, like an ancient and unholy storm, and it sends him lurching inside himself, as if he could escape the cold if he retreated far enough inside his own head.

Joe recognizes the distant look in his eyes for what it is, recognizes it from those months they spent filming _The Pacific_ , and it sends a chill down his spine worse than any winter storm could. So he invites himself over to Rami's New York apartment when he's in town, sits him down and makes him tea even as Rami's half-baked thoughts tumble out his mouth gracelessly and pitter off into nothing in some misguided attempt to be a good host, to pretend it's summer.

Joe wishes he knew where Rami went when he was like this, quiet and absent, and hopes it's somewhere sunny and warm—somewhere he can let his skin bronze and his eyes light up. Somewhere where the cold can't touch.


	5. delirious (charami, pining)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For an aborted, surreal moment, Charlie ponders about all the ways he could wring that sound from Rami again, all the different places his fingers could press to pull it from him, tug it from his core—but then Rami pulls away with a huff, and the fleeting, delirious moment is gone, smoke between his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for gumborandy, who commented on last chapter. ask for charlie hunnam and ye shall recieve
> 
> this ended up being quite a bit lengthier than the others, i hope it's alright!

_05\. delirious_

Charlie could barely see straight, let alone _think_ straight, so the fact he was still able to recall and recite his lines with some amount of accuracy was nothing short of a goddamn _miracle_.

The truth was he hadn't felt great since they started filming in Montenegro. The dieting wasn't sitting well with him, and had left him dizzy and distracted more days than not, staring on wistfully at Rami's lunches during their breaks.

The thought nearly makes him salivate now, soaked to the bone in the freezing rain, sagging under Rami's weight as they just fucking _crawled_ through this last take. They'd both been pushing a fifteen, sixteen hour day at this point, and between the harsh beating of the sun on his back earlier and the straight-to-his-bones chill of the rain now, he was barely conscious, fighting the urge to simply collapse.

Rami wasn't fairing much better. Charlie was pretty sure the way he sagged against Charlie had less to do with his in-story injury, and more to do with the very real exhaustion settling into his bones, what with the unsteady sway of his weight against the blonde’s side and his increasingly monosyllabic responses to Michael’s directorial requests. “Sorry,” he mumbles when he accidentally stumbles and steps on Charlie's toes with a muddy _squelch_ , barely audible over the sound of the rainforest around them. Charlie only squeezes his shoulder reassuringly, too delirious to answer.

Michael’s not stupid—he knows today's shoot is bordering on a rights abuse, and frankly he's nearly as tired. So he hollers out the call for one more take, and then they can all go _home_.

They punch through it one last time, powered on by the knowledge that soon after this they can finally get some goddamn _sleep_. Charlie's working on auto-pilot, barely conscious of the practiced words leaving his lips, instead focusing on where his fingers are pressed into Rami's ribcage, heaving with every winded breath and aborted complaint. The actor’s skin is cold under his fingertips, which are nearly numb on their own, just five points of meek pressure against the wet linen of his shirt, the give of his flesh.

When Michael finally yells _that's a wrap_ , Rami actually _moans_ , the vibrations sending little thrills up his Charlie's fingers from where they're still pressed to his side, tingling upon reaching his brain receptors. For an aborted, surreal moment, Charlie ponders about all the ways he could wring that sound from Rami again, all the different places his fingers could press to pull it from him, tug it from his core—but then Rami pulls away with a huff, and the fleeting, delirious moment is gone, smoke between his fingers.

He thinks about it though, idly, as they pack up their equipment and ride the buggy back to the where they've parked the trailers, as he strips off the worn prison uniform in the privacy of his own trailer and towels himself off. He's never found himself particularly drawn to men, sexually or romantically, but Rami's grown on him since they met—the throaty husk of his laugh and his cheeky sense of humor, the simple and easy way he folds into Charlie's arms. The musk of his cologne, something light and vaguely androgynous, appropriately French and dabbed on his wrists, his collar, the soft spot behind his ear.

Things that had simply been _Rami_ before, Charlie now finds soft and romantic, in a way he used to only find women. Now, he finds that age old solace in the dry curl of the other's hair and the seductive curve of his Adam’s apple, the soft fold of his tired eyes. For a single delirious moment, he thinks _I’d like to make love to him_ , thinks _I want to make him see stars,_ and it's that thought that sends his overworked mind tumbling, _finally,_ into the serene quiet of sleep.


	6. vulgar (mazlek, bry*an s*nger angst)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Singer’s been talked down enough that he doesn’t jump at the taunt, but he glares something fierce and Joe is proud, _elated_ with how Rami doesn’t look away. There’s a dare in there, a _try me_ that so many people take for granted in him, that so many people don’t see. Joe wants to lick it out of his mouth, to taste it on his own tongue -- bizarrely, inappropriately, maybe, he thinks about fucking Rami like this, aglow with his fury, vulgar with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these chapters just keep getting lengthier and lengthier asdaksljdasd at this rate imma be writing whole books in here
> 
> so this is more of a one-shot than a drabble, and it's less ~poetic~ than i'd like, but do let me know what you all think! should i do more like this? less like this? let me know.
> 
> for @myworldofgayfanfiction, who asked for something with the br*an s*nger arguments. i don't know if this is what you had in mind, so let me know how you feel about it. thanks so much for the idea! <3

_06\. vulgar_

Rami isn’t an _angry_ person.

Truthfully, he’s hard to piss off. For all of his on-screen moodiness, he’s actually quite easy going, light-hearted and happy-go-lucky at his core. He’s cheeky smiles and drawled-out jokes, giggly drinking spells and aggressive kindness—the sort of kindness so true and genuine it almost hurts to witness, a painful reminder of all the good mankind is still capable of.

Joe loves him for his joy, for his laugh, quick to forgive and quick to forget. Loves him for his sweet kisses on each cheek and his firm hugs, his loose and non-discriminate affection, handed out like party favors: free and easy.

So it’s a real testament to Singer’s specific brand of evil that he pisses Rami off so _deeply_. 

“Goddamn Perez Hilton lookin’ motherfucker,” Rami hisses from the steps of his trailer, hunched over and waving off the makeup artists and stylists trying to usher him into hair and costume. He has a cigarette in one hand that he moves to suck on angrily, brows furrowed. “Always goddamn late.” He exhales smoke from his nostrils with a huff, the cancer stick crumpling between his fingers where he’s gripping it too tightly. “ _Always_ causing a goddamn hold up. Like, who the fuck does he think he is?” 

Joe shrugs hopelessly, equally angry out of pure solidarity, but also a little distracted by how hot the other actor looks like this, pissed and deliciously vulgar. 

“Doesn’t give a goddamn shit about this fucking film. Christ. It’s really like he doesn’t care,” he mumbles, a little heartbroken, and Joe _gets_ it. He gets his anger, the injustice he feels that someone like Singer can so _easily_ dismiss the whole damn production like the _hundreds_ of people that coordinated their time, energy and resources to this don’t even matter, like _Freddie_ doesn’t matter, like Singer’s time is the only fucking thing worth a shit.

“Probably fucking some hungover blonde twink at his place,” Rami mumbles again, quieter and a bit muted. His eyes hang heavy with it, dark and glittering. The next word is spat out with contempt. “Creep.”

When Singer does arrive on set, _hours_ later, he’s in disbelief that Rami isn’t already in costume and ready to go, which beyond being hypocritical, _of course_ , escalates into something Joe’s never seen the likes of. 

“Dude, you’ve missed _days_ on set, you self-centered _shit_ ,” Rami is yelling. “You can’t just not fucking show up! Do your fucking job like the rest of us!”

“ _Don’t_ tell me how to do _my_ job, Rami _._ Christ, are all actors such entitled fucking divas nowadays or—”

“I’m sorry, _what_ ?” Rami eggs on, “ _I_ _’m_ entitled? Are you kidding me? _I’m_ trying to get this movie made, what the fuck are you doing, besides,” he splutters, grappling for words, “holding fuckin’ orgies with a bunch of—”

In a sudden flash a of movement that jolts Joe from where he’d been standing, tucked in the corner of the studio, Singer whirls around and _heaves_ an unlucky halogen lamp he’d been next to forwards, sending it crashing to the ground in an explosive cacophony of sparks and raking metal in front of Rami. There’s shrieking from a number of people around the room as the actor gasps and stumbles backwards, nearly tripping on the corner of a table, eyes wide and frozen to the destroyed piece of equipment in front of him.

“Keep your goddamn mouth shut if you know what’s good for you, bitch,” Singer warns, a clear threat in the stark, stunned silence of the room, and that’s when a grapple of well-meaning tech operators step between the director and Rami, one of them speaking clear and level, _okay, that’s enough, we’re taking a time out_.

“What the fuck,” Joe mumbles, feeling ten steps behind everyone else as he blinks at Rami quaking in the corner, starflower eyes darting between the electrical equipment now in pieces at his feet and the red-faced director a few paces from him. Joe’s own heart is thudding in his chest and he wasn’t even _involved,_ but as soon as the situation settles in he’s moving across the room, carefully stepping over shattered bulbs and tangled cords to get to the other actor. He almost laughs as he thinks about what a bizarre metaphor this is, about the kind of chaos Joe is willing to navigate through if it means being there for the Rami.

As soon as the smaller man is within arms’ reach, he reaches for him, folding him against his chest and Rami goes easily, crumpling. “Are you okay?” Joe asks into his hair, and Rami nods, but the blonde can still feel the scared-nervous pitter-patter of his heart. “He was way out of line,” he assures the other, even though the actor definitely didn’t help to de-escalate anything. He couldn’t help but love him for it, though, regardless, a proud little fire lit in his chest humming _my little spitfire, I love you so_. “Jesus Christ, I’m glad you’re okay.”

Vaguely, he can still hear Singer arguing with the techs in the background, sharp and angry, and he looks down to see Rami glaring at the director even from where he’s pressed against Joe’s chest. “He coulda killed me,” he mumbles, voice caught between a number of emotions Joe can’t quite place. “I can’t work like this.” He peels himself away from Joe, carefully, still eyeing Singer’s corner of the room warily. He’s still shaking imperceptibly, and Joe squeezes his waist in what he hopes is a supportive gesture. 

“Congratulations, asshole,” Rami calls, shaky but sharp and baiting, and a few heads in the room turn to look at him. His blue blue eyes are lit with fury, ears red with it, and his lip curls with something pure _animal_ as he continues. “You just got yourself fired.” 

Singer’s been talked down enough that he doesn’t jump at the taunt, but he glares something fierce and Joe is proud, _elated_ with how Rami doesn’t look away. There’s a dare in there, a _try me_ that so many people take for granted in him, that so many people don’t see. Joe wants to lick it out of his mouth, to taste it on his own tongue -- bizarrely, inappropriately, maybe, he thinks about fucking Rami like this, aglow with his fury, _vulgar_ with it.

Instead, he thinks _another time_ , and tucks Rami back against his chest, humming with relief.


	7. chastise (rami+sam, filming)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rami will huff, whine, cross his arms and shut off a bit, effectively chastised—but it’s better than indulging him and letting the actor work himself sick, work himself tired and hungry until he’s fighting off fainting spells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for @pfloerm, who wanted some sam/rami love. it's less lovey dovey than i was kind of hoping for and more of a muted sickfic, but i hope it'll do! i'll probably give sam/rami another go soon anyways :)
> 
> based on a little anecdote rami told in a podcast interview once. he really was sick while filming the lunch scene with tyrell, and sam really did check in with him on the slouching lmao
> 
> march 3 2020 edit: fixed some typos and missing words. lord i was tired when i posted this lmao

_07._ chastise

So the thing is, Rami doesn’t look _great_.

And Sam knows that’s mostly _intentional_ , because Elliot is supposed to be two days into a vomit-inducing withdrawal spell and sweating nervously after he’s dragged to lunch by Tyrell. Rami _should_ look the part, all chapped lips and bruised eyes, sweat-slick skin sickly in the fluorescent office lighting. But something about how he’s slouching in his chair—far enough that his ass sits on the very edge of his seat, head crumpled up oddly on his narrow shoulders—makes Sam pull away from where they were setting up cameras and frown at him worriedly.

One of Rami’s best traits as an actor is also, incidentally, one of his worst. Normally his perfectionism serves him well—gifts him with enough patience to settle into Elliot _just_ right, like a key sliding into its lock and setting into motion all the gears and mechanisms around it. It's _electric_ , almost magical, watching that moment happen, and as a show runner Sam wouldn't give that up for anything.

But even when Sam’s pleased with a shot, _elated_ with it, Rami will furrow his brow and shift uncomfortably, insist in that firm, low voice of his that he can do better. He’ll push for take after take until Sam finally has to put his foot down and tell Rami in no uncertain terms that he was goddamn _perfect_ three takes ago and he can stop wasting all their time. Rami will huff, whine, cross his arms and shut off a bit, effectively chastised—but it’s better than indulging him and letting the actor work himself sick, work himself tired and hungry until he’s fighting off fainting spells.

He looks like that now, folded into himself and staring out at nothing with those cloudy blue eyes, arms crossed and tucked into his armpits. Sam takes a moment to weigh the possibility that he’s just getting into character, that he’s trying to get a feel for how Elliot would be situating himself in this place, and sighs before approaching the younger man.

He lets himself hover over Rami for a moment, lets the actor register the presence and glance up at him warily before he speaks. Martin looks up from his phone and quirks an eyebrow at him, but says nothing. “You gonna sit like that?” he prompts. 

Rami doesn’t answer right away, but he does nod slowly, minutely as he formulates his answer. “Yeah,” he finally says, letting his eyes fall away again, eyelids thin and veiny where they’ve fallen to half-mast. “Yeah, I think I will.”

Sam nods. For the scene, he thinks it’s right. “Good. Are you feeling okay?”

The brunette jolts and looks a little surprised at the inquiry, soft mouth barely popping open in an _oh_. He sucks on his top lip. “Um,” he starts. “Not great, actually. But I’m—I’m good, man. I’ll be fine for this.”

Sam nods again at that. “Okay. Let me know if you need a break, though, alright? Promise you’ll say something.”

Rami nods, and it’s a short, jerky motion, like he had to force himself to do it against his greater instincts. Sam watches as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, fingers tugging at the sleeves of the hoodie. “I’ll say something,” he assures.

Sam smiles, glances back to the operators behind them before crouching down to Rami’s level. “If you’re still feeling like shit after this shoot, feel free to tag along with me back to my place. Emmy makes a killer chicken noodle.” Rami grins at that, a little wry and pleased at the hint of special treatment, and Sam pats his bony knee once before standing. “Until then, try to hold in your puke until the bathroom sequence.”


	8. scavenge (mazlek, hurt/comfort)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The humidity has dampened the dark of Rami's hair, made it curl and frizz and stick boyishly to his forehead with sweat. His hands are muddy, scraped up from where they’d been scrabbling in the gravel, searching for rocks to toss for the scene. It’s a detail that harkens him back to something sun-browned and ancient, to a long lost ancestor scavenging in the dirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit, y'all. this thing just did NOT want to get written. i wrote it once, scrapped it entirely, wrote again, scrapped it entirely _again_ , and wrestled with writer's block with it for about a month then finally wrapped it up just to be over with... bleh.
> 
> anyways, BIG thank you to @myworldofgayfanfiction for giving me the idea, even if it was a stubborn one. although i don't feel great about it, i hope you can still enjoy!
> 
> thanks for being patient, y'all. hoping to get back to regular posting after this! and as always, requests are still welcome and encouraged (even if they, you know, take SIX WEEKS to post... i'll get there).
> 
> this takes place while filming the scene where snaf talks eugene out of pulling teeth.

The air was heavy.

It was that thick, moist Australian heat, suffocating and wet as they kicked around in the mud. Joe’s boots are damp with it, tacky where the leather clings to his socks. They're entirely too thick for the time of year and claustrophobic in the smoky air.

The humidity has dampened the dark of Rami's hair, made it curl and frizz and stick boyishly to his forehead with sweat. His hands are muddy, scraped up from where they’d been scrabbling in the gravel, searching for rocks to toss for the scene. It’s a detail that harkens him back to something sun-browned and ancient, to a long lost ancestor scavenging in the dirt.

The actor is quiet, chalk blue eyes half-lidded and hazy in the heat. His body hangs heavy with exhaustion, tired of watching fake blood swirl lazily in the cracked open skull a few feet out from him.

“Hey,” Joe finds himself calling out to the other, and Rami's eyes flick over, sharp. “You alright?”

“Fine,” he mumbles, a low rumble barely audible in the open air. His gaze falls back to the pool of fake blood, curdling in the heat. “Just—just tired, s’all.”

Immediately, from somewhere deep within him, Joe thinks _you're not just tired_. The weight that hangs heavy on Rami’s bird-boned frame is something denser and darker than simple exhaustion. Joe recognizes it for what it is—that black ugly feeling that settles low in your belly, that slowly burns up like smoke in your lungs. “Rami,” he says firmly, pushing himself up to sit closer. Rami's dirt-smeared face comes into focus. “It's okay to need a break.”

Rami's handsome face pinches at that, and he lifts a hand to knead at his brow. “S’stupid,” he bites out, tight and clipped like if he loosened his jaw at all, more words would pour out involuntarily.

“It's not,” Joe promises. “You're not—you're not Snafu, man.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Rami breathes, and covers his face as his shoulders shake. The actor makes a quick, wet noise and scrubs at his temples, carefully averting his red-rimmed eyes. “S’not—just don't feel like myself, s’all.” He rakes a hand down one cheek. “Fuckin’—method acting.”

Joe doesn't laugh at the quip, instead lets the words sink into the dense air around them. It hangs like the putrid smell of vomit. “You gotta make room for yourself in that head of yours,” he reminds, softly, and carefully reaches for the other with humble hands. “C’mere. They'll be setting up cams for another twenty minutes.”

Rami goes with the motion mutely, too embarrassed by the cracks in his facade to protest. He presses his face to Joe’s throat, arms bunched between them awkwardly as Joe bundles the Egyptian against himself, skin hot and sticky with sweat. Like this, Joe can feel each of Rami's breaths—deep, shaky inhales against the hollow of his throat, followed by quick, purposeful exhales, warm and wet on his skin.

“Don't feel like myself no more,” Rami manages between hitched breaths. “My head don't work like it used to.”

“You're tired,” Joe reminds him. “And hungry. And stuck on this fucking island in Oceania.” Rami huffs at that. “No one expects you to be thinking straight right now, okay? It's _okay_. You're not broken. Just... overworked.”

Rami makes a small, dissatisfied noise in his throat. “I hope so,” he whispers, then shudders with something Joe knows is a sob.

It's _grief,_ Joe belatedly realizes—grief for the version of himself that existed before all this. The Rami that could sleep through the night without dreaming of corpses, of satchels full of teeth. The Rami that didn't flinch at loud noises or chain smoke to distract himself from hunger pains. 

So Joe cradles him closer, sweeps a hand over his bony shoulder blades and runs another through his tangled curls. “You’ll always be my Rami,” he reassures, squeezing tighter when all it does is urge a silent wail from the boy in his arms. “That will never change, okay? No matter how fucked up this show gets.”

“It's just a lot,” Rami explains. “I don't know how to bring it up, I’ve never—I’ve never felt like this before.” He gasps in a breath. “It just seems so stupid. I feel like it's all in my head. Like I’m crazy.”

“You're not crazy,” Joe corrects. “And it's not stupid. You're a completely rational person under a lot of stress, Rami. I’m stressed too.” He rubs his back over his army jacket, rocks them minutely. “Just cry it out, bubba. You’ll feel better.”

So Rami does just that, tears wetting Joe's shirt, hands grasping at his sleeves. Joe lets him cry for the both of them.


	9. impermanence (charami, afterglow)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loves him, in some abstract, impermanent way. He’ll love him for as long as the bruises on Rami's hips will last, for as long as he’ll stay asleep next to him. He’ll love him for as long as it takes Rami to blow dry his hair in the morning, for as long as it takes himself to remember the color of Rami's eyes. For as long as it takes for his cigarette to burn out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is for @Rogersgreasegun and @MarquessOfMercury, who both wanted more charlie/rami content. i hope this satisfies your charlie fix for a while!
> 
> not sure if "afterglow" is the right key word here but i'mma role with it for the title tag

Charlie lights his cigarette from bed.

He’s usually pretty careful about smoking indoors, but he can't bare to leave Rami alone in the bed, even for a moment.

A glance to his left shows the actor curled up beside him, all fucked out and asleep. His curls are splayed on the white pillow like some kind of dirty halo, lips barely parted as he slept soundly—a warm, sweet presence by Charlie’s side.

Charlie takes advantage of the quiet moment to thoughtfully trace the freckles on his back, skin warm and soft and brown beneath his finger. He traces the elegant dip of Rami's waist, the sultry curve of his hip beneath the sheets. He thumbs at the dimples above his ass, low on his back. He has a bizarre, fleeting thought of pressing the lit end of his cigarette to that smooth skin, of scarring it in some permanent, personal way, but quickly shakes it off, disturbed at his own train of thought.

They'd had a fun night. Rami had been in a good mood, bright-eyed and flirty, greeted him with a _hello, handsome_ and a kiss on the cheek before chattering mindlessly about this or that as he’d set out his things in the bathroom. Shaving cream, razor, aftershave, cologne—that nameless French brand Charlie had smelled on him in Montenegro, flowery and sweet. Moisturizer. A comb, hair gel and duckbill clips to set his hair in the morning before the premiere. Tomorrow, Charlie will watch him from the bed as he primps himself at the hotel vanity, legs folded elegantly as he works his hair this way and that.

They'd bypassed dinner for some room service charcuterie, Rami popping grapes in his mouth with grace as Charlie'd shoved cheese around the platter. Rami'd laughed at him, kindly, refilled his wine glass for him as he said some stupid comment or other. He can never remember the specifics with Rami, can never recall the color of his eyes or the names of his siblings, but he remembers the important bits—the throaty husk of his laugh, how that skinny waist feels beneath his palms. That delicious lisp of his, the kind that makes it hard to say words like _delicious_ and _lisp_.

He loves him, in some abstract, impermanent way. He’ll love him for as long as the bruises on Rami's hips will last, for as long as he’ll stay asleep next to him. He’ll love him for as long as it takes Rami to blow dry his hair in the morning, for as long as it takes himself to remember the color of Rami's eyes (blue, then green, then blue-green, depending on his mood). For as long as it takes for his cigarette to burn out. Its brevity doesn't make it any less true.

But, he thinks, as he pulls his fingers through those tangled curls—he has Rami now. And he _loves_ him now. And that's all he needs to sleep well tonight.


	10. bloom (mazlek, reflection)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rami, like all beautiful things, reminds Joe of flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lil something to tide y'all over while i work on the next chapter!

Rami, like all beautiful things, reminds Joe of flowers.

It's difficult to put his finger on exactly _why_. Rami isn't soft or delicate by any means—rather, he's all hard lines and sharp angles, flat planes of olive skin masquerading as ribs and bones. He's all jaws and knuckles, knobby wrists, a fragile exoskeleton protecting the softness stored deep inside. In the wet of his muscles, the soft pink palette of his tongue. The easy give and swell of his heart, red with blood.

That isn't to say he doesn't have his slopes and curves. There's the curl of his hair, dark and boyish; the arch of his spine when he stretches, freckles like constellations across his back. There's the soft plush of his upper lip, thick and pouting, curved like Cupid’s bow. The subtle curve of his hip under rough denim, under mom jeans that sit high and tapered at his waist—something he thrifted from a flea market, or stole from an ex-girlfriend, maybe.

But the way Rami blooms for him has nothing to do with his dips and curves. It's in the way he turns toward the sun in the late afternoon, in the way he’ll abandon his cigarettes in the ashtrays around Joe’s house. In the way he droops in the winter and blooms in the spring, in his low-pitched laughter and bouncing curls. It's in the ways words seep from his lips like something grown, like seeds pushed through the rain-wet earth, like petals brushed against your cheek. It's in how his skin glows warm and gold in the summer evenings, and in how pollen gets caught in his lashes in the spring.

He is Persephone with an armful of narcissus flowers, and Joe is an anachronism waiting for the parting of the earth.


	11. syllables (martin+rami, drinking together)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin wasn't sure who he was expecting to turn up at his hotel door the night before the 2016 Emmy Awards, but somehow he still finds himself surprised when he peers through the peephole to find scruffy dark hair and owlish eyes blinking back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow everyone!! i think i'm ready to bring this lil mini drabble series to a close!
> 
> thanks to EVERYONE who left kudos and comments and especially those that left requests. i started this after a series of failed attempts to write something longform, and i think i finally got my creative juices going again thanks to you all. hopefully there'll be something more exciting and fully-fledged coming y'all's way soon.
> 
> stay safe out there!

Martin wasn't sure who he was expecting to turn up at his hotel door the night before the 2016 Emmy Awards, but somehow he still finds himself surprised when he peers through the peephole to find scruffy dark hair and owlish eyes blinking back at him.

“Hi,” Rami greets when Martin opens the door, looking as if he was vaguely surprised to find himself at Martin’s door. “I couldn't sleep.”

He must be telling the truth, because he looks more Elliot than Rami right now, all shadowed eyes and chapped lips. A college sweatshirt reading _University of Evansville_ hangs ghoulishly off his narrow shoulders, a skeletal draping of faded navy fabric, and Martin is half-tempted to fix his collar for him where it stretches too wide.

The blonde can only blink back before his mind connects enough dots to spit something back in English. “So you thought _I_ could help?”

A grin splits open Rami’s lips, and all echoes of Elliot are lost in the cheeky look that tugs at his face. “I _thought_ ,” he begins, “you might be interested in splitting a bottle of room service wine with me.” Martin quirks an eyebrow, and Rami sucks on his bottom lip, suddenly nervous. “I don't like drinking alone,” he tacks on, quiet and maybe a little embarrassed.

It’s an oddly vulnerable confession from someone who’d otherwise been nothing but professional towards Martin, an unexpected soft spot in a hard shell, like finding a bruise on an apple. It takes a moment for the admission to digest, but he recovers with nothing short of grace. “Well then, you better get in here and call room service for their best rosé.”

And that’s how Martin spends his evening, nodding amicably from the bed as Rami chatters on from his perch by the window, cigarette in one hand as he blows smoke through the screen. His wine glass sits and soaks condensation rings into the napkin it's set on, slowly depleting as Rami wore on in that dry low voice of his, all tired eyes and veiny hands.

He asks Martin about Sweden, about what the English curriculum was like over there, about how he started working in the States. Confesses that English isn't his first language either, that Arabic feels blunt and clumsy on his tongue now, unfamiliar and unpracticed. That sometimes English does too, that he's practiced his theoretical acceptance speech enough times that the syllables have stopped feeling like words and began feeling just like _sounds_.

Martin knows what he means, listening carefully as his brain parses apart Rami's words into meaningless syllables, simple sounds rounded out by his slow and sleepy tongue, his smoky rasp, his inherited lisp.

He’s sultry without meaning to be, oblivious to his natural magnetism. It's disturbingly easy to feign obsession with him, to grip that jutting jaw line and peer into those chalky eyes on set and ramble off something dark and mythic. Even like this, sleepy in his college sweatshirt and edging towards tipsy, it's difficult for Martin to tear his eyes away. He can only think _you're something special_ , and watch from the sidelines as Rami eats all the light in the room.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to submit your own prompts in a comment below, if you like! as these are short, i'll do my best to respond to them quickly. :)
> 
> as always, comments fuel my fire and help me to write more. love u lot <3


End file.
